Colisseum
by ilvidis
Summary: [snowfireshipping] A story about love, the arena, and dragons.


_Breathe_. The warrior tells himself. _Never any good to enter the arena on adrenaline_.

He opens his eyes, chips of sky-blue, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. An aged blade, yet as pristine and sharp as the day it was forged by the very dragons themselves. He steadies his heart, tuning out the roar of the crowd, barbarians for a barbaric scene.

The guard shoves him, as he did every day. And every day, he does not fall. He merely rises, awaiting the horns that would soon signal the opening of the gates, the combatants entry to the sands.

For the three-hundredth day in a row, Roy Adustus enters the ring.

The sun is blinding for the first few moments when he steps into the ring, as it always is.

The swordsman blinks a few times and turns to the north to salute his master, hiding his disgust behind his mute face.

His foe emerges from the east tunnels, bellowing and stomping, a massive axe dragging on the ground behind him.

 _A minotaur? Really?_ He muses.

The beast is easily twice his height, definitely more. Muscular, perhaps bloodlusted or feral, based on the broken chains trailing off its hands and feet.

The gong sounds, the gates behind them close, and the audience falls silent.

Roy expected his enemy to rush in head first, but instead it paces and growls, matted fur fluttering wildly in the quiet air.

"What are you waiting for?!" He hears from the audience.

 _Give 'em a show._ The words of his employer ring out in his mind. He scowls and rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck in the process.

Slowly, he advances. "Afraid?" He taunts.

The minotaur charges—surprisingly fast—and he barely manages to roll to the side, reacting purely off of instinct.

 _Time to focus_.

The din of the crowd fades. To Roy Adustus, there is only him, his blade, and his foe.

The fight is boring at first. He dodges, takes a few swipes, works towards tiring out the beast. A cycle the spectators have seen and know, one that makes them thirst for the swordsman's rarely-sighted flair.

He quickly evades a swipe with the axe, and suddenly he senses the time to strike, that unexplainable feeling that rises along his spine in the minutes before a kill.

Time slows as he lunges. He understands the heavy impact of his stab, a direct hit to the left arm. He ducks under the retaliatory slash with the axe, feels the air rushing out of his lungs as he gets punched in the gut right after.

"Ah, fuck." He murmurs between coughs and gasps for air, slumped against the curved wall of the arena.

 _Fight for me, for an entire year, and I'll let your little bird free._

His eyes blaze for a moment at the memory, and he forces himself upright as the huge beast goes in for the finishing blow.

Gritting his teeth, he manages to sidestep just enough to avoid the massive axe's broad edge.

 _Just a little more time, a little more air, and I can finish this._

"Try again, I'll give you another shot." He goads.

Bellowing in anger, it rushes forwards for a series of successive strikes. Roy manages to parry the blows, throwing aside the beast's powerful swings as he catches his breath.

Suddenly, he stumbles, and the minotaur roars as he begins to bring down an overhead swing onto the redhead.

As the axe closes in, he knows he has to win, to win for his "bird", no matter the cost, no matter if he had to reveal his last few secrets.

He twists at the last moment, and the axe splits through his light armor and tears his sleeve completely only to bounce off harmlessly. Its' eyes widen at the sight of Roy's arm, light glinting off of green scales concealed beneath layers of cloth and leather.

He coughs and exhales confidently when he realizes he can breath, and narrows his eyes at his stunned foe, caught completely off guard.

With a thrust of his left arm, fast blasts of fire shoot out and knock back his opponent. Before the crowd can gasp, before the other champion's proxy can forfeit, he charges forwards and plunges his sword straight in the heart down to the hilt, practically nailing it to the ground with his strength.

"Dragonskin…" It croaks out in surprise, blood beginning to gurgle up.

Roy has to restrain the urge to vomit, as he has had to do for the two-hundred and ninety-nine kills before this one. He rises, and bows towards the balcony, where his employer and three-hundred different proxies have reclined, along with other members of the empress's court.

He takes the briefest of moments to clean the blood off of his blade before returning to the tunnels.

For the first time in all of his three-hundred fights, the crowd does not cheer him off, they only sit in silence and confusion.

* * *

He is alone with his employer and her personal medic in his chambers.

 _Fifty-six more fights._ He counts to himself as he lies on the examiner's table, being prodded for any broken bones. As per usual, he lacks any serious injuries. Or at the very least, any injuries that would halt the sequence of three-hundred and fifty-six fights he is sworn to win.

the politician is upset with him, more than usual.

"So you did it. The very thing we agreed not to show." She coldly inquires. "They'll bring even harder champions now. You're ruining my bid, Adustus."

"Apologies. It was what I had to do." He flatly responds. "I would've died and we both—"

"He'll pay for this." She absentmindedly remarks.

He snaps his head up from the table. "Don't, please."

With a sneer, she glances down. "Don't what?"

"Please don't hurt him. Please." Roy drops the façade of strength, fear and concern overriding all other emotions.

"Right now, he's my bird. And you still have fifty-six matches to win before I'll even think of being nice, dragonspawn."

He bites his lip in pain as the medic applies small magic to the bruising on his torso.

"Are we clear?"

Reluctantly, he nods.

"You know the drill by now. Be ready for tomorrow." She leaves him, the medic scurrying after in obedience.

The doors to his quarters slam shut, the locks clicking behind her.

And as he had done for the past two-hundred and ninety-nine night, he allows himself to cry for his bird, his Robin, his love, fierce bringer of storms and soft holder of affection.

* * *

He breaks his wrist forty-five days later, his first serious injury, screaming in pain as the bone shatters.

His opponent on day three-hundred and forty-five is a spellsword, or more accurately, a mage equipped with a wicked dagger he surmised she probably didn't know how to use outside of landing killing blows.

Her gravity magic hurt like hell, it had pinned him down and destroyed his right wrist.

Gritting his teeth, he slams the sand with his left hand, palm open as he struck the ground, and a blazing wall of fire. He takes his sword with his left hand from his clenched right one before sprinting through and barreling into her with his shoulder, crashing right into her and knocking them both onto the arena floor with a heavy thud.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he smashes the pommel of his blade against her temple before she can cast, knocking her out.

Roy exhales in relief and pushes himself upright into a standing position. He looks to the north, for the briefest moment.

 _Nothing...then now is the time._

He focuses all of his inner power to the unconscious body before him, feeling a heat build up between his eyes, growing hotter and hotter until the woman bursts into flames.

He relaxes, the pressure fades. Now he only has to wait for the fire to work its natural course as it burns up the witch.

* * *

He winces as the healers take great care to numb his arm as they set and reform the delicate bones in his wrist, some of the pain still seeping through regardless of their efforts.

"Adustus."

"Yes?"

She unceremoniously places a velvet box on the table where his arm is being set.

"Open it." She orders.

He snorts. "You ever tried opening those things with one hand?"

Scowling, she grabs it and opens it, dropping the contents into his lap.

His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. "No. I'm not using that."

She pinches his scales, a pale turquoise green. "Aren't they inconvenient? It would help us win the next few, wouldn't it?" She persuasively asks, although it's less of a question and more of an implied threat.

He looks away at nothing for a moment. "I'll take it. But I won't use it."

"It's your loss." She dismissively responds. "I'll just find another champion."

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence. The healers finish, and depart.

"Adustus." She commands his attention a second time.

"Yes?"

"You won't have any days of rest. It was the empress's orders."

"That's fine by me."

She leaves, the locks clicking behind her.

Roy glances at the stone in his lap.

 _She must've shelled out quite the gold for this. A dragonstone, a blessed one at that._

He shoves it in his pocket and leaves the antechamber of his quarters to sleep.

* * *

The gong sounds on day three-hundred and fifty, and Roy Adustus immediately detects that he has both an advantage and disadvantage.

He recognizes the oddly shaped steel and snorts in disapproval. "Really, a dragonslayer's sword?"

His opponent of the day is another swordsman, one who was not expecting a fair fight.

 _I'll just have to give him a fair fight, then_.

His foe charges in recklessly, and Roy simply sidesteps and smiles.

"C'mon now, no funny tricks. Just you and me, two guys with a sword, how about that?"

A frustrated growl is the only response he gets, and the redheaded dragon-child merely dodges the following swipes of the sword, his own blade staying sheathed as he laughs and sways along the path of footwork he'd practiced for so many years.

He ducks and hops away from the sloppy swings, one of them managing to take away just a small part of his hair.

"Hey, let's dance. Nothing special." He offers again, his words carrying a bit of an edge to them. "Duelist's honor."

He holds up his left hand for a handshake, only for his foe to close in with a swift side strike, one he easily hops away from.

"Nice try. Now it's my turn."

Roy smoothly pulls the scabbard off from his belt, swinging it upwards in a swift motion as he steps in for an attack, with enough force that the hit to the other champion is enough to make him stagger back. He advances with fluid, swift strikes from both his sword and the sheath, driving back his clearly outmatched foe.

He raises his sword for the fatal blow, time slowing down as he analyzes the scene, checking for any possibilities of escape, ensuring that—

The gong sounds and he drops his blade, startled.

He bows to the North, picks up his weapon, only to hear a fierce roar.

He sighs, and without looking, sweeps the fool off his feet. "You lost. Get over it. You're shit, so that dragonslayer is too."

Roy slides the scabbard back into his belt and returns to the east tunnels.

* * *

"Tomorrow's our last fight. Against the empress herself. You already know that." Her words were crisp, but he could tell she's concealing her trepidation. "They say she picks her champions based on what she's up against. Be wary."

It was all the warning he got.

* * *

Roy steps out into the ring for the three-hundred and fifty-sixth time, blinded as usual by the sun for a moment.

He gazes at his opponent, and in his shock and fear, doesn't notice the sound of the gong.

He's fought countless monsters, in and out of the arena. Yet the one that stumbles forward from the west gate is the only one to truly strike fear into his heart, sending his pulse into overdrive as his mind comes to a grinding halt.

It's grotesque, it's beautiful. It's a massive violation of rights, it's a natural mesh of traits.

A half-transformed dragon in a humanoid form, howling from pain and confusion as it slowly staggers towards the crowd's favorite, his eyes wide as he gazes at the snowy haired abomination.

Six thick wings lazily droop from his back, some fully formed and some ripped, as if those incomplete parts had been torn off before the transformation could complete. Black and gold scales run along his exposed skin, the rest covered by flesh or his now disheveled mage's robe.

Most horrifyingly of all was the face, scales creeping up along the edges, one half with three reptilian eyes and one human eye on the other.

Robin Eurus was the only other man Roy had ever loved, and here in the arena stood an abomination with half of Robin's face and his clothes and his tortured, sobbing voice.

It's a wordless cry, and as the tears drip from his normal eye, his draconic eyes squint in search for vengeance and a culprit for their awakening.

Roy nearly trips as he backs away, and his lover suddenly lashes out with a lightning-shrouded claw.

He barely manages to parry, taking his sheathed sword and redirecting the sudden attack to the air.

Gently, the creature reaches out with a human hand—smeared in his own blood—and takes the redhead's left hand, squeezing it weakly.

Suddenly, it screams and drops his hand, its own flying to the side of his head, which had grown small, dark horns among the tufts of his swan-white hair. It opens its' mouth, as if it were pleading for mercy, but only raspy noises come out before it all comes to a quiet stop.

Roy drops his sword into the sand and reaches into his pocket, trembling with every step forwards.

 _I had fought for you._

He reaches out, gently wiping off tears that came running down faster than the winds.

Robin stands, tortured and incomplete, lost in the fog of draconic degeneration. One hand, marked with the dark scar of his heritage, pressed against his head, in the familiar way he always did when trying to stave off a headache in the midst of a fight. One hand, with black scales and gold ichor and gold sparks running all along it, wrapping itself tightly against the swordsman's throat.

He pulls the dragonstone out and pushes it into Robin's mouth, a fang jutting out from one corner as he silently screams. The edges of his vision begin to crinkle, darkening, colors fading. Almost like blowing a candle out.

He sees Robin swallow, almost as if he were fighting the dragon for the very act itself, and allows himself a smile.

 _I would die for you._

The scales begin to recede, the tears in his flesh seal and heal. His wings suddenly rot and fall off.

Yet the last to heal is his arm, disobediently wrapped around the throat of the lifeless champion. A lifeless lover, the lifeless bid for ascension.

* * *

 **some notes+context.**

 **basically the setting is in an empire and the way to rise up through the hierarchy is through gladiator duels where you send out proxies to do the dirty work. roy's coerced into being a champion because whoever he's proxying for is allegedly holding robin ransom (this is not true lol).**

 **(Also happy 2018. I wish i had an actual celebratory story for the occasion but oh well, we have this instead.)**

 **i'm not 100% happy with how it turned out but i liked it enough to put it out here on the internet.**


End file.
